


dulce et decorum est

by elossa



Series: This Place Was A Shelter AUs [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Multi, Out of Character, Romance, and ofc chuck's thinking with his dick, kait's still arya stark, lena's still a bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elossa/pseuds/elossa
Summary: In nineteenth century Wizarding Europe, the war of hearts is as important as the love of your fatherland.(Seven Devils-centric, nonlinear, kinda OOC, specific warnings in each chapter)





	1. pulchrum est paucorum hominum (lena, age 17)

**Author's Note:**

> helloooooo, i've had this idea in my head for ages, and i'm going to put it down on paper because why the heck not. this is meant to be a little confusing and the characters aren't meant to be constantly in each other's lives. also, try shipping any combination of the above characters listed. (i mean some will be obviously het, slash, or femslash, but yeah.) for those familiar with the world of hr, try doing the same with characters outside of it. it should work, and that's the point.  
> (chapter title translates to 'beauty for the few')

Lena knew this day would come.

She had been forewarned. It had been the reason she'd been practicing her dances, her violin skills, and other menial things that she wouldn't bother herself with once she became materfamilias. Her Latin was flawless, and so was her English, her French, her Spanish. The German had always absorbed knowledge the way water did salt. Her stunning academic performance in Durmstrang had not superseded almost all others because of a sheer need to win - though that certainly aided her - but was because she relished it. It was a pity, then, that she had not been born with a cock between her legs; she would require her husband's permission to continue her scholarly pursuits once she married.

A glance at herself in the mirror made her frown. She would never be beautiful - never mind that she had flaxen hair that reached her waist or piercing blue eyes. Her sister Heini was beautiful, with delicate features and a charming laugh that warmed even the coldest of men. Her brother Alexander was beautiful: broad shoulders and a husky voice that was hard to forget; had Lena not been his sister, she would have fallen in love with him. Even Ivanka had been beautiful before her untimely demise.

Lena was stuck with the plainer features from both sides of the family. Her jaw was too angular, her lips too full, her cheeks so pallid no amount of blush could give them the rosy glow they desired. She wondered if her intellect and sharp tongue would scare men away or draw them closer to her. Her father, Lord Johann of Westphalia, wanted a good match for her. So did she, though she would not be surprised if they had different definitions of the phrase.

Dear Nimue. Lena wished she was above this nonsense, but she was not. She was just a girl fresh out of Durmstrang with no decent prospects of marriage, and the only boy she had been friends with, according to  _everyone,_ did not count. Her mother had begged her to compartmentalise her curiosity when it came to the matter, and though the blonde had done so she found it exceedingly difficult. He was from a proper family, he was accomplished and handsome, and if she allowed herself to, she could probably fall in love with him too. So what was the problem?

Inspecting her dress, Lena was glad that the seamstress stuck to her whims despite the dictations of current fashion trends. Her white dress was simple, baring only her ankles so that she would not fall during her dances. The cerulean satin overcoat clung to her form but not as tightly as society would allow, with white lilies and forget-me-nots embroidered on the hem. She bared none of her bosoms, which were high on her chest, and none of her wrist. Upon closer inspection, the ensemble looked very much like her dress robes for school, though with white instead of black.

Her mother called for her presence, and the blonde gave herself one more look in the mirror. She ran through a bevy of breathing exercises she had devised to keep her calm during the stressful exam period, as well as some Occlumency drills to keep her mind sharp and alert. More than one thing was bound to go wrong tonight.

Taking a final, bated breath, Lena put on her hat and walked out of her chambers, where over fifty men would wait for her and her friends to make their debut. She hoped he would be there to calm her nerves, but luck had never been on her side.


	2. in umbra, igitur, pugnabimus (kaitlen, age 15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 in one night rora?? r u ok??? no i had caffeine  
> (chapter title translates to then we will fight in the shade, or thereabouts)

Kaitlen Penelope Manikas was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

After yet another term in Durmstrang trying to skirt as many rules as possible, she returned home to see her mother in hushed tones with other ladies talking about the uprising that would be coming. How soon, no one knew, but  _soon._

She'd been told that summer to practice her Greek, not her Turkish. Keep going until she could read Homer with more fluency than Akshamsaddin. Keep going until your mind ran in Greek even when you were asleep.

Little did they realise that Kait had already  _done_ that. When she was not speaking Russian at school, she would be brushing up on the language of her fatherland before it was taken by outsiders. She knew every word of  _The Odyssey_ in its mother tongue and could recite Socrates in her sleep.

By the time she returned to Durmstrang that autumn, she could wield her loyalty as equally as she could her wand.


	3. perdidit semper amare (charles, age 18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title translates to love always loses)

"No!"

Her cry halted his tracks. She had ran -  _glided -_ up the main staircase up to his chambers, gaping at him once she realised she had seen him in the flesh. Gasping in horror, she flung herself to face the wall, her skirt swishing behind her.

Even in the midst of her distress, he found himself slowly falling in love with her.

He dressed himself, flicking his wand to tidy himself before turning to face his best friend. "Why not?"

As she turned to address him, he noticed the way her appreciative gaze lingered on his body. Her cheeks began to flush as she looked up at him, tears staining her face. "I - I do not wish for you to die."

They could hear the unspoken words between them, whispers and echoes in their heads. He had known her since they were children, before decorum had any place in their lives. He had been there when she was taught how to read, when she was secretly taught how to joust and duel, when she became a woman in the most private sense. He'd loved her through all those times.

He will continue to love her in spite of her choices.

"Please accept that this is the course of action I want to take," he said. His voice remained stoic, but he knew she could hear the plaintive begging that he so wanted her to hear.

She drew in a sharp breath, smoothing her skirt. "I'll try," she said, nodding curtly. "I'll try."

He didn't quite see her walk towards him until she had both of her hands on his cheeks and pressed her lips onto his.

She felt like liquid fire. Soft, hot, wanting. He wrapped his arms around her waist, tossing her robe aside as he pulled her closer to him. Her hands moved onto the back of his neck, tugging him closer. It was unfortunate that her balance was never strong enough, so he fell onto his desk with a hard thud, taking her with him.

They broke apart for air. He felt juvenile, letting one kiss reduce him to a panting dog. She was definitely flushed now, stray locks falling from her chignon. He kissed her again, harder this time. She slapped him.

"I should not have done that," she whispered, composing herself and retrieving her robe from the floor. "Why did you let me?"

His lips formed a thin line as he voiced his answer. "Why do you think?"


	4. aperire terram gentibus (dylan, age 16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to 'open the land to nations'.

Napoleon has been defeated.

Dylan had only heard legends of the great French Commander, all boasting of his intelligence, wit, and prowess. Yet he had fallen to the Russians, and all of those tales felt like lies now. The Treaty of Gulistan had been signed and ratified, and his family no longer had half of the Court in their pockets.

All of this news he heard from Durmstrang, a thousand miles away. The owls that he had sent had not returned. He had petitioned to Headmaster Rusnak for permission to return home and aid his family's situation, and he had yet to receive his reply. Rumours said that many were petitioning to do the same, and the volume of such requests was a nightmare for one Headmaster to deal with.

Frankly, Dylan didn't like dawdling. If his father was dead, he needed to take on the responsibilities of a Veer patriarch. Navigating the new government would be difficult, but Dylan had learned enough about it from his friends and allies to have a rough idea of the main players in the game. If only he had the upper hand of meeting any of these pieces; the Russian and Persian Empires had been at war since he was a child.

The thought of not being considered Persian made something in the man itch. Through his mother's line, he was distantly related to Mihrişah, wife of Sultan Mustafa III. Over ten generations of men on his father's side had served in the army or equivalent. Even though he was Persian by blood and by birth, now that his country was under another's control, was he considered a citizen of that country?

These questions made his head spin.  _Everything_ made his head spin. His hands trembled, aching to take action, his heart constantly beating as if he was waiting for the cannon to strike. Sometimes he would wake up in cold sweat in the middle of the night, his nightmares constantly a mixture of his family's impending death or his former village turning into rubble.

For now, he was going to take the Firewhiskey his friend had given him and try and cram all of these plants in his head in time for his exams.


	5. astra inclinant, sed non obligant (alora, age 18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to 'the stars incline us, they do not bind us'.

An owl arrived for her at breakfast. It took approximately five minutes for the letter to be read, shredded, and incinerated.

"Alora, are you alright?" her housemate asked.

She nodded, her eyes watching the flame dance, licking the parchment and charring it until it is naught but a pile of ash. After Vanishing it into the ether, she lost twenty house points for her house, received a scolding from her Head of House on how she should have been setting an example, and retreated to her bed after classes.

All of her motivation vanished. She was going to be a Healer, and her forecast results have said that she was well on her way there. But now her hand was bound to another. Would she be so lucky as to have a spouse that would let her continue with her ambitions? Luck had not been on her side thus far, so she hoped that this would be an exception.

Alora had met him once, but she could not forget how he made her blood boil and her head ache. To spend the rest of her life with him was a death sentence. 

If only having freedom wasn't, either.


	6. benedicite mihi pater, quia peccavi (anya, age 14)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to 'bless me father, for i have sinned.'

"These _Gryaznyy_  are waging war as if they are changing clothes." Count Andrei Nikolas Telsa the Fourth tsked as he dwelled on it. "Why should I lose any more men to such futile exploits when there is much to be done on home soil?"

 _"Lyubov moya,_ must you do this on the dinner table?" Georgina frowned, squeezing her husband's wrist, "that is hardly an appetising topic for the family."

"But Father is right," Andrei Nikolas Telsa the Fifth concurred. From the corner of her eye, Anya swore he'd been stabbing his sausage. "We shouldn't have to submit to the whims of the unworthy. We have worked hard to obtain the fruits of our labour and just like we are not required to share, we should have no masters but the Tsar."

"Exactly," the patriarch agreed. "It is highly imprudent for them to keep asking us for men when so many have died. Their wives and children have no one to support them thanks to their constant errors in judgment."

Anya nodded in assent. The few times she had seen the widowed on her family's land, they all looked weary and afraid. She gave them plenty of food and firewood to last the winter - thanks to Replicating Charms, but Muggles didn't know about those - but they always said that they would rather have their husbands and fathers back. If she was in their position, she would wish for the same.

Next to her, her younger sister smirked. She did not voice her opinion, but Anya could hear it blaring deafeningly in her ear. "I would not say that they have no one," she said, ever the present image of the perfect pureblood heiress. Her voice was laced with the ice the elder sister often hated to hear in her own voice. "They have  _us._ Even though they are mere  _Gryaznyy_ , we are kind and merciful, and we let them live. Isn't that right, Father?"

"Masha!" Anya hissed, a quick move that quietly impressed both parents, "that is language unbecoming of a lady!"

"That is right." Andrei the Fourth gave both his daughters a stern look, yet it softened by a fraction as he continued to speak. "We are kind and merciful, and we will continue to remind them that their existence is not without a price."

The smile that came on the younger Andrei made Anya shiver. It was as cold as Siberia and just as soulless. "Perhaps we will show the military  _exactly_ who is in charge of our land. We will send those we see unfit to work to the Army and see if they dare cross us again."

Not even their mother could find a retort to that. She exchanged looks with her eldest daughter, who looked just as restless as she felt.

She knew that her family had hidden their hatred of the people they ruled beneath cloaks, food baskets, and stable homes. _These were the same people that wanted us dead for centuries,_ her father often rattled,  _and now, they bow to us. How... burlesque._ He had been right, she knew that much, but how were they any better if they inflicted the same pain over them?

That was Anya decided to put more effort into her Occlumency exercises at school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gryaznyy - Russian for dirty/filthy; a made-up word I'm using to reference Muggles/Muggleborns


	7. in nocte consilium (rhys, age 15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to 'advice comes over night'.

His parents were dead.

He'd attended the funeral, witnessed every will-reading, heard every condolence thrown in his direction.

That didn't matter because his parents were  _still_ dead. He didn't need anyone to remind him of that.

He remembered the last time he'd seen them: wide-eyed and glorious with the promise of returning after a week's sojourn in London. They had required it after his father spent every day but Sunday working around the clock. On the way back, they had been attacked by some violent highway pirates near Bristol, and the injuries they both sustained was far too great to outlive.

He'd nodded through the coroner's report and the funeral and the will-reading as if nodding would bring them both back to life.

A ward of the state, Rhys spent weeks in an orphanage in Cardiff. He learned the true meaning of hunger and thirst, unable to touch any of his family's money until he was of age. The weeks dragged him and his physique by the ear, so that by the time his aunt and uncle arrived he had begun to wither away into nothingness.

Count Iosef and Countess Jestina Zlobin - his maternal relatives - had come 'as soon as they heard', but the perilous journey from Moscow to the British Isles had taken weeks. They had admonished the people in charge of their nephew's well-being - 'How  _dare_ you treat the offspring of a Countess like a common dog!' - and whisked him away to a dark alley behind the orphanage.

"W - Where am I going?" Rhys asked. He knew the markings of a foreigner and that was definitely  _what_ the couple were.

So he was pleasantly shocked when his aunt spoke in a flawless Welsh accent. "You're coming with us to Russia. You don't have family anywhere else."

"But what about Hogwarts?" Rhys frowned. He quite liked the dormitories of Gryffindor Tower and would very much like to stay. "My friends will be worried for me and I don't want to trouble them."

The elder couple exchanged looks. That was never a good sign. "We've put a transfer in for you to go to Durmstrang," Jestina explained. "We're sure the Headmaster will agree considering your... exceptional circumstances."

Rhys  _loathed_ the sorry expression in her eyes. He'd had enough pity for a lifetime.

Iosef took him by the hand, giving him the brightest smile he could muster. "Come," he said, "your cousin Ana is so excited to meet you."

A second later, the trio spun into nothingness.


	8. ab inconvenienti (frodo, age 11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is new latin for 'from inconvenience'. make of that what you will.

"You may now kiss the bride."

As he watched his mother kiss his new father (as opposed to his very much dead old one), Frodo realised how  _big_ everything was. His suit felt like they were made for someone much older than him. Their new house - mansion, more like - was far too big for four people. Even the dress his mother wore - bleached _Crêpe de Chine_ that bore all the telltale signs of the best Russian craftsmanship - seemed to want to be shrugged off her shoulders in pursuit of a more voluminous body.

His new sister -  _Monae_ \- had icy blonde hair and lips tinted a rosy pink. He felt as if he was her shadow with his chestnut hair and tan skin, and it did not help that she oft ignored him whenever he attempted to speak with her. Her glacial manners made Frodo wish for home, though he knew he could never return.

As his mother and new father danced, he committed the images of his mother in the sun to memory. Gone was the woman who was practical, who lived from month to month and barely having enough to feed her and her son. She was always glowing despite the heavy bags beneath her eyelids and her weary posture. Despite the hardships she faced, she never let her son's etiquette be anything less than perfect. He could read and write just as well as any highborn child, as well as speak several languages and ride feral horses that strayed their land.

The thought of his mother being Cinderella, the golden girl of Nizhny Novgorod, made Frodo smile.

It was his turn to dance with his mother now, and even through her polite smile and tinkling laugh as he twirled her around - she was still far too tall for him - he could see the strain her eyes were under to be kept open. Though he returned his mother's joy, he gave her a pointed stare when he was sure that no one was looking. Her reply was that she would talk to him later, but how much later she did not specify.

He cried when his mother was whisked away to her honeymoon. She promised to be back in a month, but he still wondered if it was one she could keep.

Soon after, he was tended to by numerous nannies, who asked him what he wanted and how they could give it to them. Aside from a cup of tea, he asked for the library and to be left alone until it was time for dinner. Monae didn't pursue him or ask to get to know him; that was fine, for he was in no mood to entertain anyone.

He found some books on a bookshelf, quickly flicking through them until he found one on healing potions.  _This is interesting,_ he thought, snuggling himself into the chaise still in his suit. He wondered if the knowledge in this book would have been enough to save his old father from consumption.

No one had the heart to move him when they found him several hours later, asleep with a book floating on his lap.


	9. sed terrae graviora manent (kaitlen, age 17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is 'but on earth, worse things await'.  
> i'm flying tomorrow, so an extra treat for everyone.

Kait was an impatient woman.

She tapped her fingers to the tune of Pachelbel's Canon in D as her hickory hair was curled the Muggle way. She tapped her fingers as they fixed her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, having to do it numerous times because, like her, stray hairs refused to co-operate. She tapped her fingers to Mozart's Turkish March as they fixed her dress upon her: a beastly  _pink_ thing with a cowl neck as opposed to the white and blue colour palette she preferred. (She wasn't subtle in the slightest, was she?) It fell halfway to her calves, revealing her petite ankles that her servant spent hours earlier in the day scrubbing it until it was scarlet and painful to the touch. There was a bit of lace she didn't care for that made her knees itch. It was rather frustrating.

At least she got to wear the black sensible ballet flats that she'd put numerous Cushioning Charms on. Not like any Muggle would be any the wiser, of course.

Compared to all her friends from school - she was lucky that they at least could debut  _together_ \- she felt out of place. Her family was not noble like theirs; her mother was a courtesan, and she was but a bastard daughter of the old King. It was not common knowledge, and Kait had made certain of it; many thought she was a niece of some Countess in the Ottoman Empire, and that was the story she'd rather they stick with.

Seeing her friends interact with each other and talk of balls past gave Kait a feeling that could curdle fresh milk in seconds. She had never  _been_ to many balls; nowhere near as many especially when the old King passed and her mother fell out of favour with the court since the former King's consort had never been particularly fond of her. And now she was making her debut without her mother by her side - she had not been able to make the trip without rousing suspicion - and she was both ready to burn Rome to the ground and drown herself in the ocean.

Kait danced with men. And men. And more men. They were obvious and predictable and utterly dull, constantly trying to boast about their prowess or wealth. If only it was acceptable for her to marry a woman, for she definitely had one in mind if that were the case. She also had the task of not disappointing her blonde friend - who had taken on the mantle of mother for the evening - to blow raspberries in their faces and tell them how she thought they would all be bedswervers and saddling geese, but then they'd call her as uncouth as a sailor.

It didn't matter, because she swore that she would become one someday.

She had danced with who must have been her tenth or eleventh of the weaker gender until she finally found someone who caught her interest. He was  _some_ man from  _somewhere_ with  _some_ fancy title that she could not bother to remember. They'd sparred on the most minute to the grandest of matters, and each retort she gave, he returned with something sharper and wittier. Her lips had almost curled into a smile.

They danced for three dances - much longer than what was considered customary - but Kait's minute attention span at least picked up on several things. One, the man was a wizard; he'd let slip once he started talking about the British Ministry's new regulations on blood magic and how thick it was. (Kait agreed.) Two, he was of a higher status than her - though to be fair, who here tonight was  _not?_ Three, she really liked him. Perhaps not romantically, but enough to perhaps marry him one day.

Now, if only she can remember his fucking name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bedswerver - shakespearian insult for adulterer  
> saddling goose - an imbecile


	10. inveniet quod quisque velit (charles, age 16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING OF DEPICTED/IMPLIED FATHER/SON EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE. (and a brothel. sex is discussed quite briefly, though no actual sex takes place. feel free to skip if it's not your cup of tea though if it _is_ , let's see if anyone can see any foreshadowing in this.)  
> chapter title translates to 'steadfast in the midst of change'.

Charles wasn't sure what he'd been expecting.

His father is a general in the army first, a Duke of Prussia later. As a result, war was the colour in his life: it brightened and darkened and seeped into everything he saw and felt and touch. He saw the crimson from his father's crackling rage when he missteps during a dance, the indigo from the veins popping in his father's fist when he looked too much like the men he fought against, the black when his cheeks were stained with waterfalls and he hides from the shadow of his father's temper in a closet.

It was no wonder at all then, that Charles _willingly_  followshis father to a whorehouse, and because of his age, had to be _babysat_ by the  _madam_ in her office. He saw lots of pretty women in pretty corsets and a lot of eyelash fluttering, and he wasn't entirely sure if that was what he was meant to see. Sure, he had visions of what would occur, and perhaps he'd heard stories of what  _happened_ in such places from his father and older friends who'd frequented the place. But expectations and hopes that were solely his own? No.

The madam - ehem, Madame  _Belvoir -_ was a Parisian who made her way to the Prussian border through, quite literally, fucking her way to it. She had long, wavy hair tied in a long braid, shimmery copper intertwining with golden leaves, and long, parabolic nails peeking from a crack in her glove. A rose gold pendant in the shape of a ribbon was tied around her long neck, emphasising her ample bosom and her sharp chin. Her dress matched her pendant: a flamingo pink, knee-length outfit with a tight-fitting satin bodice and a filigree front. Had Charles been any other teenage nymphomaniac, he would have tried to proposition her.

But he was a  _Prentiss,_ a man of  _honour,_ and he was to remain a virgin until marriage, so he questioned her on the art instead.

She told him about kissing - the only thing he had much experience with. _Draw it out, make sure you feel like you're in a Chinese finger trap before you proceed any further._ She told him about touching. _It need not be rough: gentleness can strike equally a strong chord in a woman. Or man, if that is your fancy._ She told him about undressing, and the during and after of _in flagrante delicto._   _Remember to be kind in the afters - regardless of how the experience actually was._ Though her words were mostly rephrasing 'use your instincts', they were useful all the same.

He spent most of his evenings dreaming out the girl of his dreams since he was a toddler reliving her words over and over again after that.


	11. omne initium difficile est (dylan, age 19)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to 'every beginning is difficult'.

Dylan was  _married._

The past several months passed in a thunderstorm. He was betrothed to someone chosen by his mother, a matchmaker from his village and someone from her's. She visited his village, and he hers. He'd gotten to know her, from barely knowing her name to tolerating her to seeing a future where he cared for her and their children. For her engagement ring, he transfigured a chunk of gold in his family vaults into a thin gold band with her and his names engraved in Arabic. She had smiled and told him she wanted to kiss him in Arabic, a tongue that sounded so foreign on her lips.

Then the  _Namzadi_ invitations came, and Dylan had never been so acutely aware of how many relatives he had.

As if he hadn't become used to decadent food served at such events, the wedding outstripped all of his expectations. His bride's parents outdid themselves at every turn, creating an event that was more extravagant than any seen in his village, and all residents had been invited to attend.Their Holy Book of choice had been one of Hafez's poetry books, and Merlin knew how but she'd gotten one of his quotes incorporated into her henna. Though Dylan did not care for the way his wife winced at how some of the commoners dressed and greeted him, he was glad that at least his village got to enjoy the ceremony as much as he did. 

The wedding night had been fine. The honeymoon had been fine. She was as tender as she was after the ceremony as she was before, her lips soft and her laughter still as pretty in the void of night as it was at the break of day.

Perhaps her tenderness was why he felt so queasy whenever he shed his façade around her.


	12. familiae, debitum, honorem (alora, age 13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to family, duty, honour (yes, like the tully motto.)

One February morning, Alora received direct orders from her family to go to Tetouàn at once. She was grateful for the reprieve of the cold Northern winter at first, until she saw at last why they summoned her.

Isabella is dead.

Of all the people God chose to take from her, it had to be the one person she considered pure in this world. Their considerable age difference meant that she did not see much of her as a child, but they had maintained a steady correspondence. She was married to a Marquis who enjoyed the sauce and the boom of cannons more than their actual marriage, yet Isabella expressed little resentment towards him. _He does not hit me,_ she wrote,  _and that is all I hoped for._  

Seeing her sister embalmed made Alora's ears ring. Her hands clenched into fists and tears threatened to break the dam that held them back, yet they did not find the strength to. Something inside her simmered in rage. Her mother or father's cries could not wrangle her out of her reverie. Baby Sofia, Isabella's only issue, was asleep, tufts of Madeira-coloured hair beginning to curl beside her cheeks.

Giving birth to her had caused her sister's death. If she knew anything about the woman, it was that she would not want anyone to cry over her death. She wanted it to be like a seed sprung in spring: a start of a new chapter where she ceased to exist. Merlin knew  _why_ Isabella thought that way, but it was her positive disposition that kept Alora from flooding Madrid and Munich both with her tears.

When Sofia began to cry, it was then that Alora's mind finally ventured below the clouds. Her need to weep dissipated as she turned to see the helpless babe cry: she was more than likely begging for food or to have her underwear changed. Perhaps she was yearning for her mother's bosom or touch or voice, all of which was no longer possible. A quick sniff by the nurse confirmed that her underwear was indeed clean, and something in Alora yearned to have her niece in her arms. She gently took the curls out of Sofia's vision, cradling them in her arms as she sang. Sofia's cries turned into sniffles, into hiccups, into silence.

"We'll take care of her," Alora said with finality, holding her niece close to her chest. Her parents nodded, wondering how their daughter had the heart of steel.


	13. vera causa (anya, age 20)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title means 'true cause.'  
> also i'm having a lot of angst in here, aren't i?

Anya had been married for several months. She and her husband - a  _Praporshchik_ of the Russian military- had enjoyed a lavish wedding only the well-disliked middle child of a noble family could endure, an equally grandiose honeymoon in the Black Sea, and a marriage that was full of love and kindness. He had entertained her with his gifts from the four corners of the globe and insight into Tolstoy that she could not give, and she thought that she made for a very good wife - or at least, that's what he said at night.

But then he had to poison himself and earn her contempt from the court.

They called her a liar when she wept herself raw at his funeral, wiping snot onto her handkerchief and crying into her brother's sleeve. They called her a whore as she accepted the condolences and rejected the advances of the many men that called himself his comrades. They called her a bitch as she refused to find another husband until she was to fall in love again, redirecting her mail to her patriarch who deemed these  _ _Gryaznyy__ unworthy for the likes of her.

She could hear her father's words ringing in her ears playing like a saccharine tune from a music box.  _That is what you get when you surround yourself with the unworthy. Now do you see why we must reign above them?_

It was becoming surprisingly difficult to push those thoughts away. She knew that she should not submit to hatred, she  _would_ not, but it was difficult when that was all they threw at her. Only her family gave her any kindness - but it was in the perfunctory, told-you-so manner wrapped in a bow of bitterness and righteousness that even the deepest, darkest parts of her lacked. Her sister was to be married soon to one of her many classmates in Durmstrang - Merlin knows who, she didn't really care - and Anya prayed to a God she was not sure existed that her marriage be as happy as hers once was, tossing aside the bitter ending.

The only remnant of his living self was a painting in their bedroom in a bed far too big for her alone. She often imagined that he held her from behind, an arm around her waist and pulling her close to him because it was the only way that she could put herself to sleep. She oft spoke to him too, pretending to caress his cheek as she told him of the day's events, imagining his tired laugh as she complained about compulsory Sunday brunches with her family. Every day, the thread that linked to his existence seemed to slip away from her grasp, the hand gripping onto it becoming clammy with the weight of remembering him, and she refused to let go.

Because letting go of him felt like letting go of the truly happy part of her, and she was not ready to do that just yet.


	14. fons et origo (rhys, age 19)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title translates to spring and source  
> a lighthearted-ish chapter to combat the angst, or at least, that's the point of this

"I hope that the ceremony was to your expectations."

A hollow laugh. He pretended not to notice. "If I had to be truthful, it exceeded them."

"Good." He gave her a warm smile. In the light, he was almost as red as his hair was. "Y - you look beautiful, m'lady."

She laughed. It was genuine this time. "Stop being so formal, Rhys. I  _did_ tell you you were allowed to call me by my first name, now that I am your wife and all."

"I know." The band on his finger made it impossible to forget. "It still feels...  _weird."_

"Oh? And why is that?"

"I... I wish I had an answer. You're so beautiful, and I'm so plain. You're so intelligent, and I am not." Sharply, he inhaled. "If we were betrothed whilst we were in our cradles, I would have thrown my childhood away."

"Rhys, I - "

" - you fascinate me. You seem to have seen so many things in the world I have not yet had the privilege of seeing. You're also well-versed in English poetry, which helps. You're also kind, and merciful, and - "

"You're making it sound as if I and Aphrodite are on the same level. You too have your strengths. You are a quick learner with a moderate temper that compliments mine."

She captured his lips with hers. Exchanging smiles, she held onto his hand for the entire length of their journey towards the coast.


	15. ad perpetuam memoriam	(frodo, age 18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title means 'to the perpetual memory'.

He barely knew her - a _Gryaznyy_ \- before they were betrothed. She had a decade's worth of life experience on him, and that was somehow enough for him to cling onto her words in court.

She had the wisest features: a thin mouth that knew exactly when to parrot the beliefs of others or to quote the Bard, eyes that seemed to warm you like a campfire or pierce into your soul, ears that seemed to hang onto every word yet none of them at once. He swore that she knew of Durmstrang from the way she spoke of his schooling, but he couldn't tell if she was playing at being clever or if she truly was that knowledgeable.

It was not difficult to like her. She graced her with his presence, had impeccable manners, and the perfect balance of opinion and nonchalance of a suitable woman. He had met her friends, who all seemed to think highly of him. Her parents approved of him, and vice versa.

Truthfully, the only person who did seem to resent the arrangement was Monae, but even then he could tell that she admired the woman.

Their wedding day was three months away when she decided to visit her hometown of Vladivostok. A blizzard had struck the city, leaving her and her family confined within the confines of their estate. He'd only found out about her death a month before their wedding, a tear-stained letter making its way to him and apologising for the bitter fate she succumbed to.

Frodo ran a hand through his hair, burying himself in his research until her name stopped being a trigger.


	16. quos amor verus tenuit tenebit	(lena, age 15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: 'those whom true love has held, it will go on holding'.  
> music rec: carin at the liquor store by the national

Lena was used to slinking behind in the shadows. She had made it to the top of her year without rousing a single suspicion from students that she had done so. She created spells, smuggled in chocolate, made things come and go without anyone thinking otherwise.

She was not used to, however, getting  _feelings_ and wanting to make them known.

Watching the object of her affections, she marvelled at how she laughed so freely, throwing her hair back in reckless abandon. She watched her bend the rules of Quidditch for her own personal gain, becoming the first woman player of the sport in the institution, if not the continent. It had been a slow, arduous process to even gather the courage to speak to her, when Professor van Zandt did that for her in the form of a Standard Spellwork essay.

She didn't even bat an eye before storming off, insisting that she did none of the essay with her. Lena, of course, knew that to be her response and said nothing. She continued to say nothing until she handed in the essay, and the only evidence of her partner's penmanship was a footnote on the last page of the essay.

Professor van Zandt failed both of them, and sentenced them to detention on a Sunday evening. Lena chose to bring in some of her research and continued to study the theory of blood wards as her partner tried to set fire to some parchment. She did not notice until her partner asked her if she would like to make some noise. The blonde's response was to snort, roll her eyes and continue to try and pretend that she didn't notice how devilishly seductive her partner's smirk was.

She sat on the desk, crossing her ankles. Shoving the research into her bag with unparalleled grace and speed, the blonde frowned, asking her what she wanted. The response she got was 'to fuck things up': one she wasn't completely pleased with. Looking up at her made Lena sweat, utter confusion as to whether to kiss or slap the girl and the fate each option will bring her.

"You really think too much, don't you?" the other girl asked. 

"I do not," Lena said. Her reply was not meant to be defiant, but it was.

The other leaned down, her face inches from hers. The blonde knew better than to back away, but now their breaths were mingling and she smelled like peppermint and rebellion. _So sweet,_ she thought, _so temptingly sweet._ Those thoughts dissolved as she leaned up to cover her mouth with hers, her hands reaching up to tug her by the collar closer to her. She responded with a ferocity that she did not expect, sighing into the kiss. Lena swore that she had drunk half a bottle of Firewhiskey by the way the world spun when they broke apart for air.

Too bad she was far too invested in the chase rather than the upkeep.


	17. delectatio morosa (charles, age 17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to peevish delights  
> (also, birthday present to myself. wheeeeeeeee)

Charles knew that he should not be here, but he'd spent a lot of time in his life being in places he should not be just because he could, and today was no different. It wasn't as if the hosting Lord could pick him out anyway. His brown hair was similar to many in the room, as well as his outfit, tailor-made for him in Savile Row unlike these peasants, who would have theirs made by local tailors. His tie, tuxedo jacket and trousers were a matching shade of charcoal, and his silk waistcoat was inspired by the batik patterns prevalent in the Dutch East Indies.

Many were none the wiser to his gatecrashing as he took his place dancing amongst the women, enjoying the dinner with various Lords, Dukes and heirs from kingdoms all across the continent, and even earning himself a heavy kissing session with a forward Duchess which was, to be fair, completely satisfactory.

But all these women in their grand dresses and fancy hats that seemed to end up halfway across the ballroom could not compare to  _her._

He'd recognised her upon sight, of course, drinking her in like the finest wine. Her dress fitted her _perfectly,_ subtly emphasising every curve she possessed and making her look every bit the woman she had become. His lone true friend in Durmstrang - who also graced the ball with his presence, thank Merlin - had chided him for not being able to make his claim on her, but it was tiring to explain to a man of higher station that he could not have any woman he wanted. Firstly, his father refused to arrange the betrothal contract. Secondly, her father too refused. They both said that he was too frivolous and a suspected bedswerver from the way his eyes oft strayed to other women. Merlin hoped that his father, of  _all people,_ would understand the allure of beautiful women.

Approximately two hours into the festivities, Charles finally managed to sneak in a dance with her. She'd scowled at him, asking him what on earth he was hoping to achieve by defying the host's orders but seemingly glad that he had been there anyway. When all of the chaperones turned their heads, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and slunk away as the piece ended, dancing with a girl that looked vaguely familiar for whatever reason.

When the night was over, he retreated to his friend's manor with some of his acquaintances from school. They boasted of tonight's activities from excessive drinking to smoking tobacco in the courtyard to, according to one person, popping the cherry with one of the maidens. The conversation made Charles's mood akin to wormwood. How on earth did he ever enjoy such perverse discussions before?

He was loath to admit it, but he was growing up.

Through mutual agreement, he stayed over that night; it was not as if his father cared about him enough to check on him. The friend helped him find less formal attire - a pair of pinstripe pyjamas that had magically grown with him over the course of a decade that he'd always kept at his place.

They chose not to speak. His friend had grown weary with the amount of small talk he was forced to make - he was not a particularly talkative man - and had retired early. Charles's mind was kept awake by the events that transpired that evening. In particular, it was preoccupied with the girl of his dreams looking like a vision sent from heaven itself, possessing the beauty Hera and Aphrodite and Persephone had ten times over at least, and Merlin, she had looked so ridiculously happy.

If only it had been in  _his_ arms, and not someone else's.


	18. maxima debetur puero reverentia (dylan, age 21)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is 'we owe the greatest deference to a child' from juvenal's satires.  
> soz for the absence; it's been a loooooooong weekend

Dylan was on horseback when he received news that his wife had survived the birth of his child. He'd rode back to the estate in record time, immediately asking for his wife and child.

The Gods chose to bless them all by giving him an heir.

As his eyes set upon him, it was no wonder that this child was half of him. He had olive skin and the roots of a long, black mane present in the tufts of hair sprouting from his forehead. His fingers looked like stems erupting from the ground, his face the blossoming of flowers in spring. In spite of the tug of war in his soul, Dylan chose to remind himself that he was blessed.

His wife basked in the afterglow of his birth. Her smile was wider than the Nile and filled his heart to the brim with warm. She had kissed him, muttering how the birth had been remarkably short though the pain was not something she yearned to live through again. Dylan knew there was no real rush unless their babe was taken from them, and he knew many a method to preserve his life for as long as he needed.

They named him Darius.


	19. turpis non est quia per naturam venit (alora, age 19)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title translates to what is natural is not dirty  
> aka i've been watching b99 for 3 days in a row lol sorryyyyyy

After the events of her wedding night, Alora returned to her chamber and set her wedding night attire on fire.

Watching the flames dance across the snow white fabric and staining it charcoal until it crumbled to dust set a sick sort of satisfaction within her. She did not like the man that she had been forced to bed last night, though he did not at least force himself on her. She would say that she  _did_ consent to it and he had not put a toe out of line, but at the same time she did not want it.

She did not want him.

He'd tried to cushion her heart by whispering to her sweet nothings throughout their wedding day. She'd feigned laughter at his words and kisses on the altar, but that day was long over and she insisted on turning into her usual Siberian self if she could help it.

It was painful to watch him as their day progressed. The ash was not disposed of discreetly as she'd forgone an  _Evanesco_ for levitating the pile through the first-floor corridors of the manor and disposing of it in a wastebasket on the ground floor right past his bedroom. His eyes lingered behind her as they spoke during breakfast, talking about the honeymoon that was to begin tomorrow.

Merlin. She'd forgotten that she'd have to spend more time with him.

If she was to be frank, Alora almost regretted setting fire to her clothes, but she did not want the reminder that she had not married for love. Those dreams had been thrown askance when she flowered, but it did not stop her from  _hoping._

At least she could finally say that she did not hate him anymore.


	20. crescit eundo (anya, age 18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: 'it grows as it goes' from the seal of the state of new mexico

This would be the last time she sailed from Durmstrang on a ship. This would be the last time she ever went to the Institute at all. This would be the last time she would see her friends like this: as friends, not as tools or pieces in a game of chess that started with the birth of civilisation on their fatherlands.

Anya could hardly count herself the pensive one in their group, but her mind kept lingering on the thought of a future she did not want to have. Her best friend - who she was careful not to ever refer to her as such - sat next to her with a matching expression, ankles crossed and her smile tight. She knew that much plagued her mind, but she knew that prying could destabilise both of their nations. That, and she needed one less reason to feel like a gadfly.

She knew that she was going to be shipped off to be married the moment she returned home. Admittedly she couldn't say that she was looking forward to it - her father could have set her up with Merlin knows who - but she'd made good impressions at her début. Her friends had thought so, their parents had thought so, and even her mother had remarked that she'd looked radiant in confidence.

Her heavy red robes broiled her skin in the surprisingly warm June heat. As she watched the silhouette of the Institute fade into the distance, she took off her robes, revealing a plain carmine robe that exposed a fair amount of décolletage that was thankfully covered with a heavy necklace with opulent rubies and black opals that she had received as a gift for her fifteenth birthday. She saw her best friend's eyes stray towards her, stripping themselves of their robes as well.

"That necklace makes you look... good," they said, before turning away and continuing the sumbel someone in their boat had started.

Only Anya's sensibility prevented her from saying anything more than a thank you.


End file.
